And, yesterday, was 41.
I counted.
The first six were in middle school and high school, where I was the pianist for ceremonies at my small rural school.
Then four more as a music major in undergrad, required to sing in the choir at every commencement.
Three as a public school music teacher, playing the processional while other people's children walked across the stage.
Six more through my master's and PhD — still a music major, still in the choir.
Then 18 years as a professor, watching students cross stages I had helped shape.
Then three more from the "big" stage itself, as an associate vice president, finally seeing the view from the other side.
Forty graduations.
From the piano bench.
From the choir loft.
From the stage.
From the dais.
And this one - my 41st - was different.
My daughter Dayna walked across the stage at the University of Delaware. Her own bachelor's degree. Her own moment.
And I'll tell you what nobody tells you about watching your own child graduate after spending a lifetime watching everyone else's:
It is not the same.
I was so NOT Dr. Robinson during that ceremony.
I was so out of my usual, measured self. (Those who know me personally know exactly what I mean!)
I was proud mama all the way.
I stood.
I waved.
I hollered.
I screamed.
I cheered.
I celebrated her.
And honestly?
I celebrated me too.
I sat in that crowd as a mother — not the pianist, not the professor, not the VP — but as mama.
Just a woman watching her daughter become the woman the world hasn't fully met yet.
And what I saw in her eyes after she crossed that stage was the very thing I feel called to help women reclaim in my own new season.
That look that says:
the world is mine.
That look that says:
I am ready.
That look that says:
I may not be completely sure what's next, but I am not afraid.
Because that is what a stage really is.
You step onto it as one version of yourself and walk off as another.
And somewhere in the crossing, the world is told:
she is becoming.
Somewhere along the way, many of us traded that light for our CV, respectability, survival, and other people's expectations.
Watching Dayna carry hers across that stage — fresh, unspent, fully her own — reminded me what we're actually building toward.
Not the degree.
Not the title.
The light.
Congratulations, Dayna — my pookie bear!
Go meet the life waiting for you.
Go conquer everything with everything in you knowing that everything you need is already inside you.
Enjoy every part of the discovery of "her" along the way.
And to every woman reading this who's been waiting to cross her own stage:
It's still in there.
It's not gone. It's just been waiting.
With so much love from Belize,
-Nicole
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The Caretaker — her time, energy, and identity belong to everyone else first.
The Postponer — planning the next chapter for years; "soon" has become its own form of staying.
The Doubter — the whisper feels too big, too late, or too unlikely to be hers.
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P.S. This usually lands in your inbox Saturday morning. This week, technology had other plans and honestly, sitting with Dayna's graduation one more day made this letter the right one to send. Sometimes the timing chooses you.
